Praying With Our Feet

Wineskins Contributor・05/24/19

Barbara Brown Taylor writes, “Earth is so thick with divine possibility that it is a wonder we can walk anywhere without cracking our shinson altars.”[1]Consider the pace at which we tend to do life. The temptation is to plow through – make lists for the things, do the things, stress about all the things, and then go to bed and do it all again the next day. Taylor continues, “While many of [Jesus’] present-day admirerspay close attention to what he said and did, they pay less attention to the pace at which he did it.”[2]Jesus did a lot of walking. He had a lot of time to pay attention. Every day we are running past altars – sacred moments in which we encounter the divine. I am discovering that the door intos piritual rhythm, for me, is the practice of paying attention – particularly,paying attention with my feet.

Sometimes the callto “pay attention” hits hard and fast. George Mallory, when asked why he wantedto climb Mt. Everest, famously replied, “Because it’s there.” I will not soonforget standing in my kitchen, talking to my friend, Katy, while she and herfamily were on furlough from their mission base in Tanzania. My husband and Iwere planning to visit them in Tanzania a year or so from that kitchenconversation, when she drops this one on me: “When you guys come, are you going to climb Kilimanjaro, too,or is it just Brian who wants to do it? Because I would climb if you wouldclimb.” I might have actually unleashed a minor emergency word, along with alaugh, and then realizing that she was serious, said, “Wait, what?”

For many years, thanks to John Barton, my husband, Brian, dreamed of climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro, and when our friends moved to Tanzania, he immediately began dreaming and planning a visit and a climb. He grew up in the mountains of West Virginia, cut his teeth on an adventurous expedition to the Sierra Nevada’s in high school, and regularly went on weekend rock climbing trips during college.

Me?

I read a lot of books and watch a lot of Netflix. But when Katy asked me that fateful question, something deep inside my bones stirred a bit. Knowing that we needed to choose dates for our trip soon, I did what I know best – become well informed: I ordered two books about Kilimanjaro, explored mountaineering blogs, and began researching equipment. Like Hermione Granger, the over-achieving-know-it-all companion of Harry Potter who, when nervously anticipating her first flying lesson, quickly found out, “This was something you couldn’t learn by heart, out of a book, not that she hadn’t tried,” I practically memorized a detailed guidebook aptly named, Climbing Kilimanjaro. And I made the decision: I’m going to climb Mt Kilimanjaro. Maybe George Mallory was on to something, and feeling particularly brave, bearing in mind that Mallory died on Everest during his third attempt to climb, hopefully our fate would turn out differently than his. We spent the next year preparing, saving, and hiking…lots and lots of hiking.

Backpacks loaded, water bottles filled, hiking boots broken-in, we loaded into a dusty land rover to make the 4-hour drive around the base of the mountain to the starting point of our 8-day journey. Said land rover consisted of Brian and I - American Christians, Katy -  Tanzanian-resident missionary, our guide Abdi Shirazy - native Tanzanian Muslim, our assistant guide Godfrey - native Tanzanian Catholic, and Sjoerd - the randomly placed Dutch atheist who was thrown into our group last minute along with his guide, Dullah - a native Tanzanian Muslim. We had the makings of Pentecost in that bumpy car ride – 3 languages, 3 religions, 7 varied worldviews. And even more so in our camps each night where tents of yellow, orange, and red licked the earth like tongues of fire from all over the world – we met hikers from Japan, South Africa, Korea, Canada, the UK, China, Australia, India, Germany. And there she loomed before us, Kilimanjaro – that 19,341 foot altar holding space for hundreds of seekers.

For days we walked.We began in rain forest, the sounds of birds and colobus monkeys providing oursoundtrack. Each day, waking with the sun and sleeping with the moon, therhythms of the mountain demanding our utter respect and fidelity. By days threeand four, the landscapes changed, and the mountain got lonelier - lessvegetation, less wildlife, more silence. We walked slowly, each stepdeliberate, each breath labored as the elevation rose. We hiked through rocks,sat still while clouds literally brushed our faces with cold damp, and settledin each night to warm soup and warmer company. Sjoerd taught us a Dutch cardgame, we laughed, we talked, and each night I read to our tiny cohort ofclimbers from my Climbing Kilimanjaroguidebook about what to expect the next day, exactly how many kilometers wewould be hiking, and what kind of elevation shifts to expect. Truthfully,nothing written could prepare us for what lay ahead each day – it could only belearned through walking.

By day 6, we werepreparing for our summit bid—temperatures hovering around 15 degrees. Abdi wokeus up at 10 p.m. and by 10:30 we were walking, the first group to leave theBarafu base camp. Walking this time, in the dark, the path before us lit onlyby our headlamps. Our rhythm: walk for 45, break for 5…over and over again forhours. I remember looking out, at one point, and watching a lightning stormseveral hundred feet below us. And as the night loomed on, a thin line of tinylights in a switchback pattern making their way toward us. The only thing infront of me was Abdi’s boots and his pace, crunching white snow, leading theway forward. With my hands frozen, nose runny, breath coming hard, spirit atthe breaking point, Godfrey, like a mother hen tending her chicks, unzipped my packand applied chapstick to my numb lips, wiped my nose, and helped me take sipsof water muttering soft encouragement in a mixture of broken English andSwahili.

Step - God.

Step - Help.

Step – Me.

…became my sacredrefrain that night. I repeated it for hours in the dark, entering a sacredrhythm of prayerful groundedness –bumping into an altar of snow and scree witheach step. Up we climbed, hundreds of searchers. We crested Kilimanjaro just asthe sun was rising, and made it to the summit with tears and laughter, meclinging to Abdi’s strong arm for the last 100 yards.

St Augustine said,“solviture ambulando, - It is solved by walking.” I think I understand what hewas getting at. As I walked the earth, the real, lived experience of a commonhumanity moving toward something more expansive and at the same timebeautifully particular woke me up to the divine.

During the height ofthe Civil Rights movement, Dr. Martin Luther King led a march from Selma,Alabama to Montgomery, Alabama. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel participated inthe Selma-Mongomery march, and when Rabbi Heschel returned from Selma, he wasasked by someone how he found time to pray while marching. Rabbi Heschelresponded, ‘I prayed with my feet.’  As we consider what it means topractice sacred rhythms, may we learn to pay attention. May we learn to noticewhat gives us life and opens our eyes to the sacred. It may be a quiet time ofBible reading and prayer journaling, but it may be a walk through the woods ora march for justice - a prayer with our feet.

May God open oureyes, open our hands, and ready our feet.

[1]Barbara Brown Taylor, An Altar in theWorld, 15.

[2] BarbaraBrown Taylor, An Altar in the World, 66.